The Emancipation of Nick Stokes
by nicky69
Summary: The truth, they say, shall set you free. But can Nick Stokes ever be free from the horrors of his past? AN: This is AU slash folks, if that's not your thing, please walk away now. Betaed by those lovely ladies elmyraemilie and syrenslure.
1. Chapter 1

Before you read this, please read the warning below.

**Warning: For future chapters. This is a slash story dealing with ,angst, non-con, violence, reference to child abuse and dark subject matter. If any of the above offends you, please walk away now.**

**The Emancipation of Nick Stokes **

The crime scene was like any other spectacle in the bustling city of Las Vegas, loud, noisy and surrounded by a multitude of curious onlookers. Some people came to Vegas to get married, some to gamble and some just came for the show.

Nobody came to die, but it happened anyway.

So here he is, squinting against the flashing blues and reds of the patrol cars, taking in the scene. His watchful eyes flicker over the people who jostle at the crime scene tape, vying for a better view of the body and snapping away with their cell phone cameras, looking for a macabre souvenir or a picture they can sell for a fast buck.

The local media had arrived on the scene quickly, most likely tipped off by one of the cops in return for a little something off the books. The glare of their lights stings his eyes, their contrived words of sorrow batter his ears, a litany of phoney rhetoric designed to sell nothing but airtime. They make him sick. They were nothing more than vultures, feeding on the misery of others, and sadly, he has seen it all before.

The feel of a hand on his arm, tugging insistently, reminds him of where he is and why and he turns to address the nondescript, middle-aged man behind him.

"You still want to do it in the alley, man? Or do you want to take this somewhere else? Somewhere a bit further away from the cops?"

"The alley, but just be quick about it."

So he turns and walks away, away from the bright lights and the beautiful people; the ones with real job, real lives, and families who love them. Into the darkness and the shadows he goes, head bowed, resigned, until the man stops beside a half empty dumpster and turns to face him. Without a word, he drops to his knees, large warm hands reaching out to release the already swollen cock from its confines. It smells faintly of piss and sweat, tastes that way too, but he takes it into his mouth anyway and goes to work.

In this seedy alley, amidst the cast-offs and the rubbish of the respectable world, it doesn't take him long to bring the guy off. He jacks him with one hand, while his talented, experienced tongue wraps itself around him, making him cum. When the cock in his mouth begins to go soft, he draws back to sit on his haunches. He spits, doesn't swallow, the guy didn't pay enough for that, but hey, he gives value for money, that's for sure.

The john is already tucking himself back into his pants, making ready his escape from the dirty alley and the whore before him. For him, the "real world" is only a few steps away. In less than an hour, he will be sitting in front of his fifty-two inch plasma T.V. screen, watching final Jeopardy with his middle-aged wife, in their middle class neighbourhood.

The boy before him will most likely be on his knees again or on his back, who the fuck knows. Who cares? Still as he watches him walk away, something prompts him to ask, "What's your name, boy?"

Not stopping or looking back, mind already on finding his next trick, a rich Texan drawl fills the night air, "Nicky. My name is Nicky."

And then he is gone, swallowed up by the night, and the indifferent beauty that is Sin City.


	2. Chapter 2

The Emancipation of Nick Stokes - Chapter 2

Raising his hand to shield his eyes from the glare of too many cameras and the flashing lights of the police cruisers, Gil Grissom allows his gaze to flicker over the gathering crowd. He sees the usual assortment, the typical mix of tourists and locals, all of them eager for a quick peek of the body, as if the mortal remains of a fellow human being are some kind of weird side-show attraction. Death, it would seem, wins out over the all you can eat buffet at the Tropicana. Well, for an hour or two at least.

For a moment, he has the strangest feeling of being scrutinized, of being observed, and that's just silly, because of course he knows he's being watched. With a rueful smile, he casts one last glance at the looky-lous, and then turns back to the scene and to business.

"So, David. What have we got?"

X0X0X0X0XO

By the time the end of shift rolls around, Gil has solved his case.

It turns out that the dead man had been the owner of a nearby store. In the process of preventing a robbery, he had taken a bullet in the chest. The CCTV installed both inside and outside the store captured the crime in impersonal black and white, and had provided a somewhat grainy, but still usable picture of the assailant. Running that picture through IAFIS brought up a match. Their suspect, a local man with a long history of petty crime and drug abuse was tracked down to a low rent motel. When the arresting officers brought him in he was still wearing the same bloody clothing he had used to commit the crime. He was now safely in lockup, case closed.

Perhaps it hasn't been his most challenging case, but at least tonight he gets to go home on time and that, for Gil Grissom, is a rare event. Sitting here in his office, he ponders why he wants to go home. Can he even really call his townhouse home? Yes, it is the place that he resides when he is not at work. Yes, it contains almost all of his worldly possessions, but it feels cold and empty. There is no one there that he's eager to return to. No one to come home to, no one to care for or who cares for him.

He has always believed that his work should come first. Always thought that there would be time to meet the right person, but in truth he had given up looking for that special someone a long time ago. There always seemed to be more to learn, one more case to close, one more bad guy to catch. Now he wonders if that hasn't been the biggest mistake of his life. After all, what does it matter that he is the best in his field? Accolades from his peers and citations from the mayor are all well and good, but in the small hours when sleep will not come they bring him no comfort. His bed is as empty as his heart, and just as cold.

X0X0X0X0XO

"Nicky. My name is Nicky."

He doesn't turn to watch as his trick makes his way out of the alley behind him. His mind is already on other matters, food being at the forefront. He's barely eaten in two days, well, unless you count cum, and even if it is a source of protein, it leaves a lot to be desired.

Even with business being brisk, Nick needs every penny of the money he pulls in to pay the rent on his apartment. It's a modest place in a nice neighbourhood; more than he can really afford but he's not willing to give it up without a fight; hence, his recent activities. Lately he's been working full time at Tony's Gym on East Charleston. The money's OK and he enjoys the honest work but it doesn't always cover his expenses and he sometimes needs to supplement his income in less savoury if more familiar ways.

Deciding to call it a night, he resolves to treat himself, so he makes a quick pit stop at In and Out Burgers for some take out before he heads home. He leaves the meal on the kitchen counter still in the bag while he grabs a fast shower. Standing under the searing torrent, hands braced on slick tile for support, he drops his head and closes his eyes. There is however no absolution to be found in the cascade and it brings no relief; some stains run too deep to be so easily dispatched. Instead, the water beats down on him like angry fists, each separate drop an accusation and a punishment. His tears when they come course unfettered down his face, mingling with the water. A seemingly endless river of shame, sorrow and bitter regret, lost in the deluge.

When he emerges form his bathroom, dressed only in boxers and a soft cotton T-shirt, his appetite is gone and he feels exhausted and weak. Nevertheless, he knows he needs sustenance, so he throws the burger and fries in the microwave for a few minutes to warm them up. From his spartan fridge he draws a cool bottle of water to accompany his meal before retrieving his food. He eats quickly, mechanically, deriving no pleasure from his treat. Afterwards, clean up amounts to throwing the wrapping into the trash before he stumbles off to bed. His last thought before slumber claims him is a fervent prayer.

He prays that he will not dream.


	3. Chapter 3

The Emancipation of Nick Stokes - Chapter 3

The day shift is still very much in evidence when Grissom strolls into the lab. He's managed to avoid doing the team's yearly evaluation reports for as long as possible, but a not-so-subtle reminder from Catherine the night before had finally kicked him into action. So here he is, bright eyed and bushy tailed (well, metaphorically speaking anyway), ready to do battle with the scourge of managers everywhere: paperwork, in triplicate.

By the time the rest of his team arrives for shift almost three hours later, Grissom is feeling antsy and frustrated and seriously in need of a break. Still, he hands out the assignments for the night and returns to his office. About an hour into his official shift a call comes in, and with everyone else already out Gil feels obliged to take it. From the information he has it doesn't seem to be urgent. He could simply wait and give it to one of the others when they return, but he's been looking for an excuse, any excuse, to get out of the office; as he's never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth, he grabs his kit and heads out. In the lobby he runs into Sara, returning from what turned out to be a hoax call. Seeing as she has nothing else to do, she immediately offers to tag along with him. Gil doesn't really want her company and the case certainly doesn't merit two CSIs but he can't very well send her away and still justify his own involvement, so he reluctantly allows her to join him.

Arriving at the scene, Grissom finds himself in a dingy alley off The Strip. A section has been cordoned off with the usual crime scene tape and the uniform on scene fills them in with the details of the crime. A young female kitchen worker taking out the trash had discovered the body of a young man, unconscious and badly beaten beside a dumpster. After calling for help she had tried to offer comfort to the victim and was now waiting to be examined by CSI before giving her statement. After nodding his thanks to the officer for his assistance, Grissom instructs Sara to process the witness and take her statement while he processes the dumpster.

The alley itself is awash with garbage and filth. However, Grissom is able to collect some evidence, mostly blood. He'll have it cross checked with that of the victim and the lab's DNA database. You never know, sometimes even CSIs get lucky; it might just lead them in the direction of a suspect. There are splatter patterns on the walls, indicative of a violent assault. After photographing those and surveying the scene a second time, Grissom is satisfied that there is nothing more to be gained from the scene. He determines to see if the victim can shed any light on what has happened and what evidence he can provide. Seeing that Sara is still occupied with the young kitchen worker, Grissom decides to go to the hospital and process the victim himself.

XOXOXOXOXO

Even at this early hour the emergency room of University Medical Centre is a hive of activity. Doctors and nurses move with efficient, practised ease through the seeming chaos. At the reception desk, Grissom identifies himself to a rather officious, overly made-up receptionist. He is pointed in the direction of a harried looking intern who escorts him to a cubical in the treatment area. She informs him of her patient's medical condition and continued state of unconsciousness and consents to his request to conduct a brief examination to document his injuries and collect any evidence that is still present on his body. Then she bustles off to continue with her own work

After pulling aside one of the curtains that separates the occupant on the bed from the controlled clamour of the ER, Grissom gets his first look at their victim. Lying prone on stark white hospital sheets is a young man; his pallor is almost identical to that of his bed linen. The angry black and red from his swollen eye and split lip are the only splashes of color evident. After setting his equipment down on a cart at the side of the bed, Grissom snaps on a pair of latex gloves. He examines the bag at the foot of the bed which contains the victim's belongings. Inside, he finds a short, dark coloured jacket, a pair of dark jeans, a bloodstained white T-shirt, socks and a pair of dark hiking boots. A through search of various pockets turns up a few dollars, multiple packets of condoms and a tube of lubricant, but of any form of identification there is no sign. There is no sign of any underwear either.

There is no immediate way of discovering the victim's identity from his possessions. Grissom turns his attention to the injured man on the bed. He documents the contusions and abrasions that liberally covered the toned body before him, paying special attention to the bloodied and bruised face and torso. Someone had really gone to town on the kid and Grissom can't help but wonder why that seems to bother him so much. Once he has sufficient photographic evidence of the assault, Grissom sets aside his camera to process the rest of the victim's body for evidence. He takes blood samples to compare to the blood found at the scene and scrapes under the victim's fingernails. Hair and skin samples are bagged as well and while there are no overt signs of sexual assault he determines to have the doctor run a rape kit, too. Finally, Grissom collects a full set of fingerprints, hoping that they will help him identify the young man. As he works, Grissom finds his attention drawn repeatedly upwards, seeking some sign of returning consciousness, but finding none. What he does see were fine lines of pain creasing the smooth skin around shuttered eyes, and a pinched mouth. Even battered and bloodied it is still a beautiful face, with strong classic features and an underlying hind of boyish charm. He wonders what color the man's eyes are, and how he looks when he smiles. Grissom returns to his work with a shake of his head, pushing aside such foolish, unprofessional thoughts.

Before leaving the hospital, he instructs the staff nurse that he be informed when the victim regains consciousness. Then he returns to the lab and begins processing his accumulated evidence. He wants a name to go with that beautiful face.

XOXOXOXOXO

Sara is waiting for him when he returns to the lab. Dressed in her usual casual clothes and customary expression of barely concealed impatience, she immediately launches into a concise summary of the witness's statement.

"Grissom, the witness didn't see a thing."

"According to her statement she came out to put some trash in the dumpster, something she's done hundreds of times before, but this time she found a body lying beside it. At first she thought that he was just some homeless guy who was dumpster diving or looking for a place to sleep, but then she saw the blood. After that she just ran inside and told someone to call 911 before going back outside to see if the guy was still alive and then she stayed with him until the paramedics showed up. Did you find anything of value in the alley or with the vic? Do we have an ID for him yet?"

Raising a hand to forestall further questions, Grissom informs her, somewhat sharply, that he has not yet had a chance to process the evidence collected from either the alley or the vic.

"Tell you what, Sara. You process the blood and the evidence from the alley and I'll concentrate on IDing our vic. We'll meet up in the break room later and discuss our findings." Then he hands her his camera and the appropriate evidence bags and heads off in the direction of the print lab.

Three hours later, it is a very frustrated Grissom that Sara finds ensconced in his office. A log jam of prints taken from a drug bust is drowning the print lab, and while Mandy has promised to get his results back to him ASAP, she warned him it would probably be a while. A thorough examination of the victim's possessions has likewise proved fruitless and Grissom is feeling unusually annoyed with his own lack of results. He said as much to Sara.

"You know, Grissom, I may have an idea why the vic was in that alley in the first place. According to cop who worked the scene with us, it is a usual haunt for rent boys. Maybe our vic is simply a pro who picked up the wrong john." Seeing the look of fury that flickered over Grissom's face she hastily added, "Or perhaps he is just some guy in the wrong place at the wrong time. I guess we'll just have to wait until he wakes up to find out."

Clamping down on the irrational anger that her careless statement has triggered in him, Grissom reiterates that they should not jump to conclusions until all of the evidence is in. However, he is forced to admit that it is one possible scenario. After all, he had found an unusually large number of condoms in the vic's pockets, and the lube as well.

Further discussion is cut short by the trilling of Grissom's cell phone. Excusing himself from the conversation, Grissom answers the call; he doesn't recognize the number on the display.

"Grissom."

The call is brief. After he hangs up, Grissom pushes back from his desk and shrugs into his jacket. Seeing Sara's questioning expression, he tells her, "That was the hospital. Our vic just woke up."

XOXOXOXOXO

Grissom's second visit of the night to University Medical Centre went a little less smoothly than he would have liked. Upon arrival he was informed by the intern that he'd spoken with earlier that her patient is preparing to sign himself out AMA. She called him in the hope that he could talk some sense into the stubborn fool. Together they proceeded to a room on the second floor, where Grissom finds a very irate young man yelling at an unperturbed nurse.

"Just give me my damn clothes back and I'm out of here. Really, I'm fine and I already told you, I don't have insurance."

The veracity of his words might have carried more weight with the nurse if he hadn't been hugging his ribs protectively and swaying slightly on unsteady feet as he spoke them. Unimpressed by this weak display of anger, the plain-faced, middle aged nurse just gave a reassuring smile and told him that he would have to see his doctor first. In the mean time she'd see what she could round up for him to wear.

Looking contrite and a little embarrassed at his outburst, the man on the bed murmured an apology. "I'm sorry ma'am. I didn't mean to shout at you. I've guess I've had a really bad night and I just want to go home. I'd be very grateful for whatever you can find for me to wear. Preferably something that doesn't leave my behind on display to the world."

"I don't know, sugar, that's some mighty fine real estate you got there. Be a shame to hide it." Her tone is light, teasing even and the tension in the room dissipates somewhat. That is until the room's occupants notice the two figures framed in the doorway. Surging forward the doctor takes advantage of her patient's momentary silence, speaking in a calm authoritive voice.

"Really, Mr Riley. I think that you should stay a few more hours at the very least. You were very badly beaten and combined with the concussion you sustained, that's a very good reason to keep you here for the next 24 hours."

"Look doc, much as I appreciate your concern, I'm fine. Really. And as I already told your nurse, I don't have any insurance. I can't afford to stay. So if you'll just find me some clothes I'll be on my way."

Seeing the determination in his eyes, the doctor sought a compromise that would allow her some small measure of comfort. "OK, here's the deal. You let me examine you one more time before you leave and if I have no immediate concerns about your wellbeing I'll allow you to be released. That sound reasonable to you?"

Recognizing a way out when he saw it, Riley nods before he allows his gaze to slide curiously in Grissom's direction. Taking that as his cue, Grissom too steps fully into the room and approaches the bed.

"Mr Riley?" Grissom turns the greeting into a question as he approaches. "My name is Gil Grissom; I'm a CSI with the LVPD. I'm investigating your case." He watches as the man on the bed shrinks from his approach, his eyes suddenly shuttered and suspicious. "Can you tell me what happened tonight? Do you know who did this to you?"

Recovering quickly, Riley merely shrugs his shoulders. "Guess I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, man. I mean one minute I'm minding my own business, the next these guys drag me into an alley and then the next thing I know I'm waking up in the hospital."

Eyebrow raised in what his team would recognize as a clear indicator of disbelief, Grissom continues his questioning. "Can you tell me how many of these guys there were, or perhaps provide a physical description?" He isn't going to hold his breath for this, as it was pretty obvious that Riley isn't being exactly truthful; however, Grissom has to go through the motions. As expected the information provided is practically useless. After all, there were literally thousands of medium height, medium built, dark haired Caucasian men in Las Vegas, never mind its surrounding environs.

Before he has the chance to progress further with his questioning, the doctor returns and ushers him outside to wait while she performs a final examination of her patient. After about twenty minutes, she exits the room and crosses to speak with Grissom. "I don't really have a choice other than to release him under the provision that he return if he experiences any dizziness, nausea, memory loss or blurred vision within the next day or so. I also told him no strenuous physical activity for at least a week. He needs time to let his injuries heal."

"On that subject, doctor, I'll need a copy of his medical records from the incident to put into the case file and the results of the rape kit. If you could arrange for a copy to be ready before I leave I'd be most grateful." Nodding, the doctor takes her leave of him. Grissom makes his way back to get contact details before Riley can make good on his escape.

Grissom's gentle knock on the room door is met by a muffled, "come in." The reason for the subdued response is apparent when he enters the room. Riley is in the process of pulling on the top half of a pair of surgical scrubs, his lower half already covered in matching pants. His injuries are restricting his movement, and he is having difficulty with even this simple act.

"Can I help you with that, Mr. Riley?" Grissom asks schooling his face into what he hopes is an expression of open friendliness. Dark eyes survey him warily for a moment, before with a slow nod of his head he accepts Grissom's offer.

Reaching forwards, Grissom instructs the injured man to raise first his left arm and then his right until both are safely through the armholes on the garment. Then stepping behind, he reaches to lower the top from where it had bunched around his neck. It is only Grissom's years of professionalism that stopped him crying out at the ruin that is the young man's back. Under the riot of color caused by the fresh contusions are a host of scars. Age had faded them and the damage inflicted from the recent beating disguised them, but to his educated eye they were unmistakable signs of past abuse. He has to swallow hard to cover his reaction and Riley shifts uncomfortably under his hands before moving away from him. The intimacy of the moment is shattered then, and the opportunity for further discovery lost.

Grissom falls back on his professional persona to get him through the rest of the encounter. He collects Mr. Nick Riley's home address and phone number and promises to keep him informed of any developments.

"Sure man, whatever. We done now?"

Before Grissom can answer, the doctor returns with release papers and in a flurry of activity, he is wheeled from the room clutching the script that the doctor has written for pain meds and the bag with what possessions remained after evidence collection. Following behind, Grissom watches unobserved as Riley is wheeled to the hospital doors. He sees pain flash across that beautiful face as Riley hauls himself upright, swaying slightly, before he manages to get himself under control. He observes the shambling walk and awkward movement as abused muscles try to perform. He watches Riley's right arm curl protectively around his injured ribs as he staggers off into the early morning heat. Alone.

Then he returns to his vehicle and prepares to return to the lab. Sitting in air conditioned luxury, one thought cycles repeatedly through his head.

His eyes are brown.


	4. Chapter 4

The Emancipation of Nick Stokes - Chapter 4

"OK, guys, looks like we've got a quite night to start with, so everyone's doubling up. If anything else comes up later I'll see about splitting the teams when appropriate."

"Catherine, you've got a 288 – 311 over on Convention Centre Drive. Take Greg with you, he needs the experience." As Catherine exited the room to find her partner for the night she could be heard mumbling, "lewd conduct and indecent exposure. I'm pretty sure Greg has plenty of experience in those departments." Still, the look of impish amusement on her face took any sting from the words themselves.

"Sara, a 480 - hit-and-run out near Henderson, take Warrick with you. I'll be in the lab all night, but if you need any help just page me. Oh, and Sara--before you go out, will you drop off the evidence from the Riley case in my office."

Seeing her puzzled expression he choose to forestall any comments. "I'm just tidying up a few loose ends before I put the case to bed. The vic isn't going to press any charges, even if we do eventually come up with a viable suspect and Ecklie's on my ass again to clear and close as many cases as possible."

Nodding her understanding, she swung lightly to her feet and with a quick look in Warrick's direction, said, "Catch you outside in five. I'm driving." She was out the door before Warrick's "Picture that" had even registered.

XOXOXOXOX

The remainder of the shift went by without incident, and it was a slightly perturbed Grissom who sat in the gloomy confines of his office catching up on more long neglected paperwork. Try as he might, though, he could not prevent his eyes from drifting over to the now closed Riley file. He didn't know what it was about the young man that had captured his attention; for some reason Gil kept finding himself remembering pain-filled brown eyes and the expression of vulnerability on that battered face as the victim slept. He had to shake himself a little to dislodge the clichéd, romantic fantasy of himself as the proverbial knight in shining armour, sweeping in to save the damsel in distress. He reminded himself just what the kid was. All the evidence pointed to him being a prostitute. The location and the circumstances under which he was found, the multiple condoms and lube in his pocket and most damning of all, his own reluctance to tell the truth or press charges. They all screamed "hooker." but somehow Gil couldn't bring himself to care.

After all his years on the job he flattered himself that he was a good judge of character. Something inside him said that Nick Riley was a good guy, not merely a good looking guy, and he was most definitely no maiden awaiting rescue. The memory of his lean male form and sculpted muscles under Gil's hands had sparked something inside him, something long dormant. Still, he'd probably never see him again, so it was a moot point.

X0X0X0X0X

Grissom had cursed Conrad Ecklie, in more than one language, during the long tedious hours of administrative bookkeeping that he endured that night. It is with no small sigh of relief that he crosses his last "t," dots his last "i" and prepares to go home for the day. He's just locking down his computer and gathering his things when Mandy pays him an unexpected visit.

Offering her a seat, Grissom takes in her somewhat aggravated demeanour and the print out and folder that she's clasping tightly in her right hand.

"It's not very often that I see you in my office, Mandy. What can I do for you?"

"Mr. Grissom, I have the results of the prints I ran from your assault victim and I wanted to get them to you as soon as possible. I know that you were hoping to get an ID on your vic from them," she says.

"I'm sorry to bring you up here on a needless errand, Mandy. The vic woke up and I was able to get an ID from him. I'm sorry; I should have called and told you."

Shifting uneasily in her chair and looking slightly confused at his undisturbed attitude, Mandy leans forward, asking, "If I may ask, what name did the victim give you, sir?"

"Mandy, what's this about?" Grissom starts to feel slightly ill at ease, but seeing the determination on the grim-faced woman across from him, he capitulates. "Nick Riley."

Mandy swallows hard before she speaks. "That's not the name that the computer kicked out."

After allowing Grissom to assimilate the information, she continues. "The reason that it took me so long to get an ID, is that after first trying IAFIS and getting no results, I began searching further a field. I got a hit on the National Missing Persons Database. The prints come back to a boy by the name of Nick Stokes." She stops there, perhaps to gather her breath, or perhaps simply to gather strength for what she is about to say next. "Nick Stokes was reported missing on November 21st 1988, he was seven years old."

For long minutes nothing is said, as Grissom sits stunned by the unexpected revelation. His office, normally so comfortable, feels like it's closing in around him, around them both, and he wants nothing more than to get away from its organized clutter. Away to somewhere, anywhere where what he had just heard could not, would not be true.

With a quiet clearing of her throat, Mandy regains his attention. "I wanted to be sure before I brought this to you, so I ran the prints a second time and I printed out a copy of all the information in the missing persons report." She places the unopened folder gently before him. "There's a picture included."

With surprisingly steady hands he pulls it towards him and after the briefest hesitation, flips it open. Nick Riley's smiling face greets him. The passing of the years has changed him so little that he is easily recognizable. However, the brown eyes that shine from the photograph are a world away from those of the young man Gil had so recently encountered. Filled with innocent happiness and honest joy, they bear little resemblance to the eyes that haunted the face Gil saw earlier, where poorly hidden sorrow vied with pain and weariness for supremacy.

Looking up into Mandy's anxious face, Gil nods once, "it's him, it's Riley."

"My god, Mr. Grissom…19 years. He's been missing 19 years." She looks like she wanted to say more, but can't find the right words. "Do you think his family is still looking for him? Does he even know who he is? God… can you even imagine it?"

No, he can't imagine it, but he's going to try. He needs to know what happened to Nick. "Leave this with me, Mandy. I'll let you know if I want to proceed any further with it, OK?"

Standing, taking the hint at his words, she says, "Sure," and heads for the door. Before she has even reached the threshold, Gil is hunched over the information that she left on his desk, revisiting the past in search of answers in the present.

XOXOXOXOXO

"Sure, Nick, take off a few days man, whatever you need to get better. No point in you coming in if you're not fit to work, eh? Besides, while you're out maybe I can get a little action without the competition around."

The chuckle that followed that last remark lets Nick know that his boss is just pulling his chain. In fact he can almost see the suggestive twinkle in Rob's eye. "Just give me a call when you're ready to come back and I'll put you back on the roster, OK?"

"Thanks, Rob; hopefully it shouldn't be more than a week. They bruised up my ribs pretty good but lucky for me there's no broken bones. Hurts like a son of a bitch right now, mind you. Lousy muggers."

"No problem, Nick. You just get to feeling better soon and I'll talk to you next week. Bye."

Putting down the phone, Nick breathes a sigh of relief. He had been afraid that Rob would fire his ass for being off sick, but stand up guy that he is, he's come through and his job is safe. Well, for now anyway.

Now that at least one of his problems is taken care off, Nick allows himself to relax as much as possible on his lumpy couch. He really should move his sorry ass into his bedroom and catch some sleep, but he's too damn tired and sore. Settling back he tells himself that he'll '' just rest his eyes for a moment and then go to bed. He's asleep in seconds.

X0X0X0X0X0

FLASHBACK 1989

"Shhhh, I'm sorry, Nicky. So sorry that you made me hurt you, but really, it was your own fault. You made me do it. If you would just do as you are told, then I wouldn't have to punish you."

Nick lay absolutely still in Alissa's arms, too afraid and too sore to move. His small body was dwarfed by her larger frame. He was fighting hard not to cry, afraid that tears would make her angry. He didn't like it when she got angry.

Today wasn't the first time that she had hurt him, but it was the first time she had hit him. He didn't like it when she touched him, 'down there', didn't like the things she made him do to her and he had struggled against her, trying to escape her hateful touch. When she had left the room, like the child that he still was, he had thought that the worst was over.

How wrong he had been.

When, Alissa had returned she had been carrying something in her hand, her face was cold and expressionless. She sat on the end of his bed while Nick huddled at the opposite end.

"Come here, Nicky," she had said.

Shaking and afraid, he tried to feign sleep, and prayed that she would just disappear and leave him alone.

"God, just this once, let her leave me alone." But the Almighty's attention had been elsewhere and his prayer had gone unanswered.

"Nicky, I'm not going to tell you again. Get your butt over here now boy!"

Slowly he had unwrapped his trembling limbs and made his way to her side, eyes down, hands wrapped protectively around his thin body.

"Nicky, I've tried to be patient with you, really I have, but I just don't know what to do with you." She had sighed then before she reached out to take his chin in the palm of one hand, raising his eyes first to meet her own and then to look at the object in her other hand. It was a thick leather belt with a large silver buckle, it was Alissa's favourite.

"I'm sorry it's come to this, Nicky," she had said, "but you've been a bad boy and bad boys have to be punished. Then she told him to bend over the bed and pull his pyjama bottoms down. With an awful certainty he had known then what was coming and had tried to plead with her, beg her not to hurt him, all to no avail.

When the first blow came it had robbed him of both his breath and his courage, but the fifth he had sobbed openly and by the tenth he had prayed for death. All the while, she had told him how he made her do it, how he made her hurt him, because he was a bad boy and bad boys needed to be punished.

When the ordeal had finally ended, she gathered his unresisting body into her arms and carried them both to the head of the bed. Settling herself against the headboard, she had cradled him to her, rocking his trembling body and wiping away his tears.

"Now you know, Nicky what happens to bad boys. What you did was wrong, but you took your punishment like a big boy. I'll forgive you this time, but only if you promise to be better, to try harder. Do you promise, Nicky?"

From his position, curled tight around Alissa's waist, he had raised wide, pain filled eyes and in a tiny voice whispered, "I promise."


	5. Chapter 5

After reading through the information that Mandy provided, Gil decides it's time to pay Nick Riley, no make that Nick Stokes, a visit. He hopes he isn't on a fool's errand and that the address the young man supplied is genuine.

In the midmorning traffic it only takes him about thirty minutes to reach his destination. On his arrival Gil is pleased to find not some cheap motel running to seed, but a pleasant apartment complex surrounded by immaculate grounds. A quick chat with the super reveals that Nick is an exemplary tenant who pays his rent on time and is never a bother to anyone. Gil learns that Nick also helps out with the upkeep of the grounds in exchange for a reduction on his rent.

'Guess that's explains how he can afford such a nice place,' Gil murmurs to himself as he negotiates the unfamiliar passageways. It isn't long before he's standing in front of Nick's door. After only a moment's hesitation, Gil raises his hand to knock.

XOXOXOXO

The sound of someone knocking at his door jerks Nick from a restless and unsatisfying slumber on his living room couch. Somehow, he never did make it into his bedroom. After hauling himself from his temporary and unsuitable bunk, Nick makes his way slowly and painfully to his door where he uses the security peephole to discover who his visitor is. He recognises Grissom immediately and he debates whether to open the door or simply slink back to his couch and ignore the man. However, something tells him that Grissom isn't the kind of guy who gives up easily.

'Better get this over with,' he thinks, and as he opens the door he steels himself for more unwelcome questions about the attack.

"Mr. Grissom," Nick says as he blocks the doorway with his body, effectively denying Grissom entry. "I'm sorry but really I don't have anything more to tell you about the men who attacked me. To be honest, I'd rather just forget about the whole thing. I'm sorry if I wasted your time."

While the young man speaks his piece, Gil allows himself to catalogue the sight before him. Nick looks tired and by the awkward way that he's holding his body, he's sore too. The facial injuries that Gil noted in the hospital seem all the more lurid in the harsh light of day. Gil can see a pattern of pale creases fading against the mottled skin of Nick's jaw. Combined with the glazed look in Nick's eyes and the serious case of bed head, Gil has to conclude that he awakened Nick from much needed sleep. Suddenly Gil doesn't want to be here.

"Mr. Riley," he says, raising his right hand in a gesture of surrender. "I'm sorry that you feel that way. The men who attacked you should be held accountable for their crimes, but of course the final decision is yours. However, I am here today on business unrelated to your recent assault. Perhaps it would be better if we discussed this inside?"

Gil's statement is couched as a request and for a second he fears that Nick will deny him entry, but after a moment's hesitation Nick moves aside so Gil can enter.

Feeling awkward and ill at ease, Gil makes his way into Nick's tidy home and then turns to wait for Nick to join him. Once Nick is reinstated on the couch, Gil settles himself in a nearby armchair and prepares to broach the difficult subject that has brought him here.

"Mr. Riley, I wasn't entirely truthful with you earlier when I said that this matter was unrelated to your assault case…" Reading frustration on Nick's face, the forerunner no doubt to more objections, Gil leans forward in his chair, raising his palms outwards in a gesture that asks for Nick's forbearance. "You see, in the course of our investigation we discovered something anomalous, something disturbing." From his briefcase he pulls the folder that Wendy brought him mere hours earlier, and with a steady hand holds it out towards Nick. "Tell me Mr. Riley, what do you remember about your childhood?"

XOXOXOXOXO

Gil is a man accustomed to silence; normally he finds it neither uncomfortable nor awkward. But as the minutes after his revelation slip away with no response from Nick his sense of unease and apprehension begins to mount. Things are not going the way that he expected. He expected Nick to openly scoff at his assertions. He expected him to laugh and tell Gil that this must all be one huge mistake. Either that or he expected Nick to break down, to rage at the world. He expected some kind of reaction. Instead, Nick sits dry eyed and composed his face an unreadable mask.

'He's in shock,' Gil thinks. 'It's too much for him to take in, almost too unbelievable to be true.' But it's a sad fact that Gil knows all too well; the world is rarely filled with good intentions. The only outward sign of Nick's emotional state is the white knuckles on fingers which are clenched tightly around the glossy eight by ten of his younger self.

"Nick." Gil breaks the silence, hoping to elicit a response, any response. However, he is unprepared for the pain and the sorrow that cloud Nick's eyes when finally he meets Gil's gaze.

"I've been waiting for this day since I was 16 years old," Nick says, "And now that's it's finally here, it's almost a relief. Almost…" He swallows hard then, his eyes dropping once more to the picture now sitting in his lap. "So how does this work, Mr. Grissom? Can't we just bury this report? Can't we pretend that this never happened? I don't want them to know that you found me."

There's something in the tone of Nick's voice that been raises Gil's hackles. It's not surprise or shock or confusion…its resignation.

"You knew." Now it's Gil who feels shock and disbelief. "You knew and you did nothing? Never even let them know that you were alive?" Gil waits a beat, hoping, praying that Nick will have some kind of explanation to offer, but once again there is only dead air between them. Angry now, Gil can't restrain himself, he has to ask. "You're not even going to deny it? How could you be so selfish?"

Nick won't meet his eyes and in that avoidance Gil has all the answer he needs. He stands preparing to leave, and Nick struggles to his feet, for some reason reaching out to stop him, but Gil waves him away after only a few steps. He can't believe that he allowed his emotions to overcome him; it is unusual in the extreme. He turns his back on Nick, angry with himself and his loss of control and with Nick for not being the person that Gil though him to be. His hand is already on the door handle when a quiet sob breaks the air behind him. He has no intention of turning around, but Nick's words whispered almost beneath his range of hearing stop him.

"Please, don't be mad at me. I never meant to disappoint them."

There is such pain, such despair in those simple words that walking away now seems like an unconscionable act of cowardice, and while he may be many things, Gil is no coward. As he turns from his aborted escape and approaches Nick, he doesn't really know what to say or how to be, so he falls back on what he knows best, what he does best; asking questions and seeking answers.

"How did you disappoint them, Nick?"

Nick's bowed head rises as the gentle tone of Gil's question washes over him, reassuring him. His velvet eyes finally seek out Gil's and in their tumultuous depths, Gil can read a lifetime of pain, regret and need. As he reaches to place a hand on Nick's shoulder, Nick jerks away from his touch, wincing. Gil guides him back to the couch and says, "Sit down, Nick, before you fall down."

Once Nick is settled as comfortably as possible, Gil asks if there is anything he needs…water, pain meds, food? Nick declines and they sink back into another uncomfortable silence.

Deciding that he needs to understand what is going on here; Gil gathers his resolve and speaks again. "Nick, I'm sorry if this is painful for you, but I need to understand what's happening here. If you knew--" at the word 'knew', Nick flinches as if struck, but Gil perseveres. "If you knew who your family is, why didn't you ever contact them? Why didn't you ever go home?"

Again the silence stretches out between them, a seemingly impenetrable barrier, and just when Gil thinks that he has pushed too hard, Nick swallows thickly; squirming under Gil's curious gaze, he begins to speak.

"It was such a little thing, just a small act of rebellion, the baby of the family wanting to make his mark on the world; but it cost me everything, I can see that now."

Nick's eyes are on Gil but there is no awareness in them; his focus is turned inward, reviewing the past, reliving it.

"Nick, I'm sorry, I don't understand. Please, help me to understand," Gil says softly.

Nick rouses a little then, his mind returning to the here and now. "It seems silly when I think about it now, but that day—the day that she took me away, I missed my bus and had to walk home. That's when she came for me. I…I was already in trouble with my folks for writing my name on the wall of the garage and I was grounded for two weeks. All I could think was that now I was going to be late getting home and they would be mad and ground me again."

Nick's eyes slide away again, and pain past and present roils in their depths. Gil feels his heart stutter in his chest at the open display of such anguish. It takes him a moment to realise that Nick is speaking again and he fights down his own unruly emotions and returns his attention to his companion.

"…Allisa said that my folks told her that they didn't want me any more. She said that they had enough good kids that they didn't have to put up with a failure like me. She said that from then on I had to go live with her."

"Nick, who's Alissa?" Gil asks softly. There's no mention of anyone named Allisa in the file that Mandy provided and Gil feels his stomach twist in anticipation, for in his heart he already knows what she is to Nick, if not who.

Unaware of Gil's unease, Nick carries on.

"She's my mom."

Before Nick can explain further a huge yawn escapes him and Gil feels suddenly guilty for forcing someone just recovering from assault into revealing what are obviously very painful memories. With regret he suggests that Nick should go to bed for the time being and get some rest. As he closes Nick's apartment door behind him and finally heads home to his solitary bed, he wonders what other secrets Nick's past holds and what horrors he has yet to learn. His imagination torments him with possible scenarios and when sleep eventually claims him his last thought is a prayer; he prays that he will not dream.


	6. Chapter 6

The Emancipation of Nick Stokes Chapter 6

**The Emancipation of Nick Stokes Chapter 6**

November 21st 1988

"Crap!"

As he wiped the sweat from his dripping brow, Nick could only watch as the school bus, his ride home, vanished around the corner of the street.

"Crap and double crap!"

With an angry thud he threw his back pack onto the sidewalk beside him and then followed it down, landing in an untidy heap on the sun warmed sidewalk.

Man, could this day get any worse?

As soon as he had entered the kitchen that morning, bleary eyed and seeking breakfast, he had felt his parents disapproving stares upon him. It was clear that they were both still angry about his little act of vandalism on the garage, especially his dad. However, the thing that got to him the most was the look in his mom's eyes. In their shadowed depths he could see loud and clear the message, 'I'm so disappointed in you,' and that hurt more than he was willing to admit.

From that point onwards his day had sucked. Angry and confused with both himself and his parents he had a hard time concentrating in class. When one of his teachers had called him on his lack of attention he had uncharacteristically snapped back, and smarted off. He wasn't looking forward to giving his parents the note that she had written for him to take home explaining his forthcoming detentions.

With a sigh, Nick drew himself to his feet and turned himself in the direction of home, there was no point in putting off the inevitable, he's just piss his parents off more and he was in enough trouble as it was. Thinking about his folks, Nick felt a lump of fear and shame come to his throat, and he had to swallow hard to dislodge it. Unaccustomed tears burned at the back of his eyes, but he managed to stave them off. God, he was such a screw up!

No matter how hard he tried he was never good enough, and his parents weren't slow in letting him know it. Small for his age, Nick wasn't a great athlete; too small for football, too uncoordinated for baseball, he fell short of his older brother, the team captain.

He supposed his deficiency at sports and lack of stature were some of the reasons that he wasn't all that popular, but add in the heavy framed glasses that he wore and his love of science and he couldn't deny that he was nerd material.

His one saving grace was the fact that he was smart. A straight 'A' student, he worked hard and applied himself. That however, didn't seem to even register with his parents; all his siblings were good students. They expected it of him and so an A was not to be congratulated, but expected, and there was hell to pay if he got anything less.

Nothing he did was good enough; nothing about him was special enough to make his parents notice him. The baby of the family, he felt unappreciated and unwanted. He'd overheard his parents talking once when they thought they were alone, heard them talking about how tight money was with so many mouths to feed and how he had been an accident. He hadn't really understood that particular phrase at the time, but he fully understood it now. He was a nuisance and an afterthought, surplus to requirements, neither seen nor truly heard.

Well, they had noticed him last weekend.

His father had spent most of Saturday painting their garage. In the unseasonal heat, he had toiled, restoring the drab weather worn exterior with a coat of brilliant white that strained the eye. Nick had offered to help him, but his father had forcefully refused his offer, laughingly reminding him of his small status and lack of coordination. That mocking refusal, so casually rendered had hurt more than words could say. So, Nick in an ill advised act of rebellion and frustration had waited until the following morning and then written his name in black sharpie pen, in big letters, right there on the garage door. He knew as soon as he finished that he would soon be in big trouble, but for once in his life he didn't care.

To say his father had been furious was an understatement.

For a moment, when his crime was first discovered, Nick had actually feared that his dad would hit him. Nick had seen his desire to do so written large in the clenching of his dads fists and the tight set of his jaw. His eyes had blazed with fury and despite his fear, Nick hadn't been able to suppress a smug little thought, 'Ha, you see me now!'

As if able to read his thoughts, his father had taken a step forward hand rising as if to deliver a blow and Nick had stumbled backwards a step, face averted, but no blow fell. When he dared look up again it was to see his father walk away from him, as if he wasn't worth the trouble to chastise. Nick had never felt so miserable in his entire life.

His dad didn't talk to him for the rest of that day and it was his mom who doled out his punishment. He was grounded for a month, with no TV privileges and no pocket money. He was to go to school and then come straight back home; he wasn't allowed to stay after and hang out with his friends or go to their homes.

If he strayed from the prescribed punishment, he knew it would not go well for him. That thought was very much on his mind as he stood on the sidewalk contemplating the long walk home now that he had missed his bus.

He was screwed!

He hadn't been walking for long when an old Chevy drew up to the curb just in front of him. Preoccupied as he was with his own misery, he paid it no mind until the occupant called out to him. He recognized the driver as Alissa, his latest babysitter, so he knew it was okay to speak to her. She wasn't a stranger, after all, and his mom really liked her.

"Hey, Nicky, did you miss your ride?"

Nick tried not to grimace as he approached the door of the vehicle. He hated to be called Nicky. It made him feel like a baby -- a fact that his siblings never failed to take into account when they used the name. When Alissa used it, for some reason, it made is skin crawl.

Nick didn't know what it was about the twenty-something woman that set him on edge, but ever since the first evening that she had sat for him, he's been a little uneasy around her. It wasn't anything specific; she'd never laid a hand on him or even verbally chastised him. She'd certainly never hurt him in the physical sense, but sometimes she'd get a look in her eyes when she looked at him that said she wanted to. That scared him. She scared him a lot.

Nick had tried to tell his mom about her, tried to make her understand and find another sitter, but she hadn't listened to him. Nobody ever listened to him. His mom was busy with work, pushed to the limit by court deadlines and the thousand other details of a working mom, and she had discounted Nick's apprehension as mere petulance. Alissa had come very highly recommended, and she was always reliable and respectful. There was no way she was getting rid of her; Nicky would just have to learn to put up with her.

And now, here she was.

Leaning over from the drivers seat of the old car, a bright smile lighting her face, Alissa let her gaze settle on Nick as she waited for his answer. When he told her about missing his bus, she popped the handle on the passenger door and nudged it open. "Jump in, Nicky. I'll give you a ride home," she said.

Nick didn't want to get in the car with her, but a hasty, if surreptitious scan of the surrounding area revealed no easy excuse for refusing her offer. Also, he had to admit, if he accepted her offer he'd be home on time and then his parents would never have to know about his missing his bus. Despite everything that had been going through his head, he really didn't want to get into anymore trouble right now.

With a deep breath and a reluctant smile, Nick climbed into the passenger seat and buckled up. He clutched his backpack tightly to his chest, and sat silently, looking out the window. Sunlight and shadows flittered intermittently over mundane scenery and with solemn, resigned eyes he watched the familiar streets roll by.


End file.
